


Politically Speaking

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Airports, Alternate Universe - Politics, American Politics, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Explicit Sexual Humor, Husband Castiel, M/M, Married Castiel/Dean Winchester, Politician castiel, Politics, Reporters, Sexual Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-26 11:03:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18715753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: The media has already taken their jab at him. They say he’s too radical. Too progressive. They say he’s got no chance. Not because he’s too radical and too progressive—they use that as their cover.Castiel’s known the truth about himself since he was ten, except he didn’t have RuPaul or Queer Eye. He had himself.





	Politically Speaking

**Author's Note:**

> To celebrate the first openly gay presidential candidate. What an icon. Good luck, Pete!
> 
>  
> 
> This was also inspired by a prompt I’ll link when I find it again but basically said “ok but who in your otp holds a big airport welcome sign that says nerd for the other person” and with politics on my mind, I dreamt this baby up.

Castiel steps onto the jet bridge leading into Wichita Eisenhower National Airport after a twelve hour flight, surprised by the hands that keep him from freedom.

Needless to say, he’s not used to an entourage. Being the mayor of Astoria, Kansas, a small city of 30,000, isn’t cause for an entourage. When you live in a progressive city, it’s easy to forget the rest of the world’s unrestrained bigotry. If Castiel were a straight man, his campaign manager Hannah wouldn’t have recommended Constantine, Oren, and Flagstaff.

Although the two men are amicable enough, the glance between them on each side of him confirms they care as far out as their next paycheck. Flagstaff is a little more conversational. She works as an emergency medicine specialist for her full-time, so she’s very vocal about the war on healthcare—which is a good thing. Being mayor alone has also made him easy to forget the struggles of the middle class: the people whose quality of life he’s trying to reclaim.

The minute he steps foot on the terminal, he’s mobbed by eleven different cameras. One reporter manages to squeeze her tiny body through the throng of people, though she’s kept at arms’ length by Oren, who has a good foot on her.

“Castiel, what’s it like running against a second-time candidate in the 2020 presidential election? What are some challenges you face against a passionate, charismatic capitalist like Dick Roman?”

 _Passionate. Charismatic._ The nicest thing they’ve said about Castiel pertains to his choice of suits, and even that’s offensive.

The media has already taken their jab at him. They say he’s too radical. Too progressive. They say he’s got no chance. Not because he’s too radical and too progressive—they use that as their cover.

Castiel’s known the truth about himself since he was ten, except he didn’t have RuPaul or Queer Eye. He had himself.

“Dick Roman is a businessman, nothing more,” Castiel replies. “The country isn’t a business—and if it is, we’re _losing_ business. We’re $22 trillion in debt. So what do we do about it? Do we raise college tuition? Do we cut healthcare? Do we cut those supposedly taking ‘advantage’ of the military—a system that’s already designed to entice us with a lifetime of benefits that never actually surface unless you’re nearby an Abercrombie and Fitch?

No. We fight for _everyone_ to have equal opportunities and benefits in this country. Period. And if someone tries to argue as much, _they’re_ not American.”

The reporter nods, but it’s clear she’s not really listening to him. She’s got a glassed-over expression that couldn’t better exhibit why the country is in the shape it is. “Does your partner support your political endeavors?”

Castiel laughs. Typical. He must’ve forgotten to snap off the giant, used dildo and the watercolor rainbow flag slapped across his forehead. “My _husband_ supports everything I do. As long as I’m not hiding behind a multi-billion dollar corporation like Roman Enterprises to promote our ‘lifestyle’. In fact…” Castiel breaks into a smile—a _real_ smile, not a rehearsed, camera-ready smile—when he sees a man in the nearby distance holding an airport welcome sign. “I’m going to give him a warm, non-sponsored greeting right now.”

Constantine and Oren break up the reporters while Flagstaff takes over his role.

In the distance, he can hear her say something to the effect of: “We won’t be taking any more questions unless they hold relevance to my boss’s political stride” and Castiel decides then and there that he’s going to ask her to be his VP. Right after he confronts his husband about the sign.

“Really?” he says, smile unwavering as he gestures to the bright, glittery pink sign that reads **NERD**. “I thought you wanted to keep a low-profile during the campaign.”

“Just trying to keep you humble, babe,” Dean replies, using his free hand to pull in Cas by the nape of his neck. “By the way, I think you blew the whole low-profile thing.”

“People greet each other with a kiss in Europe. What’s the difference?”

“Well they certainly don’t grope _asses,_ ” Dean fires back, though the blush on his face is evident without a zoom and he doesn’t try to move Cas’s hand.

Cas sighs with the soft clank of his forehead against Dean’s. He still smells like beer and motor oil and aftershave, but it’s a combination that he finds both strength and comfort in. Dean’s like his recharge from all this political bullshit. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” Dean admits, moving his hand from Cas’s neck to rest comfortably between his fingers. “But you were never too far away. You’re on every single news station. Even the radio. I turned off Zeppelin’s live reunion concert to hear you.”

“I’m _honored.”_

“Seriously, Castiel,” Dean says and Cas is all ears again. Dean never uses his full name unless he’s trying to drive home a point. He’d make a good politician with his conviction. He’s definitely got the voice for it. “You’re _that_ captivating. Whether or not you win, I’m ridiculously proud of you.”

“Bobby called me.”

“My _boss_ Bobby?”

Castiel nods, even though he’s still flushed from the praise. “He said he preferred you listening to that ‘old-timey rebel rock crap’ over me because you’d get so distracted, you’d forget what you were doing.”

Dean shrugs. “I’ll take phone sex how I can get it.”

“Phone sex?”

“Seriously? With words like ‘triangulation’ and ‘whistleblower’ you expect me _not_ to pop a boner?”

“Well,” Cas says, biting his lip as he drops his voice even lower, “it looks like it’s _incumbent_ on me to fulfill your untamed political fantasies.”

“Please, Cas, give me the chance to at least get to the car.”

Cas laughs before kissing him again. “You’ve been my only breath of sanity this whole week.”

“Hey hey, whoa—no photos!” Constantine shouts, throwing himself in front of the two. Castiel breaks their second kiss and lightly pushes the man out of the way.

“It’s okay,” he says, turning back to his husband as he says, “they’re gonna have to get used to it when I’m running the country.”

 

 

 


End file.
